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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804911">To Keep Out the Chill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundanecactus/pseuds/mundanecactus'>mundanecactus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Scarlet Letter - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Guilty Pleasures, Religious Guilt, The Sexy Version We All Deserved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:13:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundanecactus/pseuds/mundanecactus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hester Prynne, uncertainly widowed in the New World, finds herself desperately lonely in a town of couples and families. The new minister Arthur Dimmesdale is brilliant but shy - could he be a kindred spirit? Could he perhaps be too kindred of a spirit for his own good? Is the title of this fic a pun? And can I write this story with shorter sentences than Nathaniel Hawthorne? The answer to all of these questions, dear reader, is yes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Dimmesdale/Hester Prynne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hester Prynne did her best always to be kind; after all, life for their community was harsh, and it seemed the best way to fight against the cold and the grey and the fear lurking in the woods was to be warm. On the boat, where all was fresh and new, it had seemed to work well—while the men had tested their bravado abovedecks, Hester had befriended a number of other women, and had aided them as a sort of nurse. She and her husband had no children, but with him back in England, she had had little else to do. For those two months, it had been rather cozy. </p><p>Now, however, the couples and families had settled down in Boston, and Hester was left alone—a widow by some accounts, a woman waiting by others. She herself wasn’t sure; no word had ever come from Roger, and as the years passed, it seemed less and less likely that it would. She made her way without issues; she had always been a skilled seamstress. It wasn’t worry over her basic needs that made things feel so grey. It was returning to her cottage on her own, lighting the fire on her own, cooking dinner on her own, going to bed on her own. Kindness was the only way to fight it; kindness drew others out, and every so often Hester would get a little kindness in return.</p><p>Her favorite day of the week was Sunday, because Sunday meant getting to be out among people. She’d put on her best dress, nod to the tithingmen, slip into a pew alongside a family and smile at the babies who were too little to know to be somber. She liked singing hymns, too—one small benefit of living alone was being able to sing at any hour she so chose. But it sounded better with other voices to join her own.</p><p>She also liked the new minister. Hester read her bible and did her best to interpret it, but she hadn’t made a study of it her whole life. Mr. Dimmesdale clearly had, and his sermons always impressed her as far more clever than they had to be to satisfy the people of Boston. He’d throw bits of scripture, anecdotes, parables, and maxims out onto the floor of the meetinghouse, and just as Hester began to despair of ever seeing his point, he’d pull them all up with a common thread. It was almost like sewing, she supposed—odd scraps that seemed unimportant on their own, but under his hands came together into something useful, or something beautiful. He had ought to save them, she’d often thought, and publish them for others to enjoy. </p><p>Hester strove always to be kind, and the young minister intrigued her, but he always seemed an asocial sort of figure. After delivering his sermons, he would do as ministers were supposed to and greet the congregation on their way out, but he always did so with downcast eyes and a much smaller voice than he delivered his services in. Granted, Hester was sure she wasn’t the picture of outgoingness when she gave him her weekly nod either; she wanted to speak up and thank him, but she always felt a little too overawed to do so. He spoke so well, and then seemed so far away, like his thoughts were miles above the rest of theirs. It couldn’t be healthy, being that clever—he always had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked a bit thin by Hester’s approximation. He hadn’t got a wife, and so far as she knew, he lived alone in the rectory.</p><p>Hester’s fourth winter in New England was a harsh one, and the long nights forced her inside with her thoughts earlier and earlier each day. There was plenty of work to be done making cloaks and mittens and scarves, but her work could only fill so much of her time, and going to bed grew colder and colder no matter how close she dragged her cot to the fireplace. She resolved to reread the bible in its entirety, paying close attention to the snippets Mr. Dimmesdale had marked out. She hoped he was warm enough in his rectory; lord knew the church was chilly enough on Sundays. One evening, with the bible open on her knee as she knit, the two ideas connected.</p><p>The excitement of finally finding a way to loosen her nervous tongue stayed with her all through the evening, and the next morning, Hester went down to the market to obtain a nice yarn. She enjoyed charity work when she could manage to afford it, but this was even better, because she could tailor her efforts to the recipient. She picked out a handsome shade of grey, and spent the week on a pair of nice thick gloves, in case he needed to write in a cold room. Determining the size was a bit tricky; she eventually asked one of the neighbor’s sons over on some contrived errand and borrowed his hands for a moment. She finished them with red trim, and set them out beside her cap and cloak on Saturday night.</p><p>She was unaccountably nervous the next day. Mr. Dimmesdale was their minister, of course, but she found she had built him up into something of a celebrity in her mind. It was barely anything, she reassured herself, sitting in her usual spot and smiling at the Proctors’ little daughter. Charity like any member of the congregation might think to give.</p><p>Still, dread built in her stomach, and by the time the service was ending, she had to fight to not stuff the gloves into her pocket and scurry out. But no—her intention was to introduce herself by way of the gloves, and make sure that Mr. Dimmesdale was paying as much mind to his health as he was to his brilliant sermons. She idled at the edge of the pew, tapping her foot nervously under her skirt, and waited for the rest of the congregation to file out.</p><p>It took her voice two tries to actually enunciate her words loud enough to be heard. “Er—Mr. Dimmesdale?” </p><p>The minister, occupied by shutting the church doors against the cold, jumped, and turned around looking almost guilty. “Oh—yes, Goodwife Prynne.” She was encouraged by that, the fact that he knew her name. “I’m sorry, did you want something from me?”</p><p>“Oh, no, I—” She fumbled in her pocket. “Er, this is a nasty winter, or so I’ve thought at least, and I worried you might be cold. It never snowed like this back in England.” She managed a nervous laugh and held out the gloves. “To keep out the chill.”</p><p>Mr. Dimmesdale stared for a moment, then blinked a few times and wrung his hands. “I’m—I’m sorry, you must think me terribly rude,” he said with a laugh that sounded almost nervous too. “I… I must admit, I was afraid you had some complaint—you caught me off guard! But I… I really appreciate this gift, Goodwife Prynne.” He took the gloves slowly, like he thought they might bite him, and held them at his side.</p><p>“Why should I have a complaint?” Hester frowned. “I haven’t seemed displeased to you, have I?”</p><p>“Oh, no, not at all,” he assured her quickly. “I… I’m afraid I’m just a worrier, is all. New places, new people, new expectations.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve enjoyed your sermons very much,” Hester said encouragingly, her confidence buoyed by Mr. Dimmesdale’s frank conversation. “I feel I understand the scripture much more clearly when you explain it.”</p><p>“Really?” A smile rose to his face, and for a moment, he looked less thin and pale and tired. “I appreciate hearing that very much.”</p><p>“Of course.” Hester smiled back, secretly delighted. Maybe all Mr. Dimmesdale needed was a little kindness too. She nodded to the gloves. “Are they the right size? I had to guess a little, but I can alter them if need be.”</p><p>“Oh!” He quickly pulled the gloves on, wiggled his fingers. “Yes, they seem perfect. And very soft! Thank you, again.”</p><p>“Washing the wool in soap before knitting is the trick,” she said, near automatically, then blushed. “Apologies. I’m sure seamstresses’ wisdom isn’t of much interest to you.”</p><p>“Well,” he admitted, “I don’t know how to knit. But I’m interested in wisdom, in whatever form and from wherever!” He gave her another small smile. “And of course, you oughtn’t take my shyness as disinterest. I’m here to support my congregation, aren’t I?”</p><p>Shyness—that was it! Hester was perfectly charmed; what a pleasant soul lay behind the cleverness. She felt emboldened. “Well, we’re here to support you as well—if you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know, Mr. Dimmesdale. I think it’s very important for us to all look out for one another here.”</p><p>He blinked a little bit at that too, then hastened to reply. “I… agree, Goodwife Prynne. Thank you for your kindness.”</p><p>She nodded, and departed, watching her step very carefully. It was cold outside, of course—bitter, driving winds swept the hard dirt path—but for once, the sun was out, and things didn’t seem quite so grey.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hester was certain that though she had offered her aid to the minister, he would be very unlikely to take her up on it. He seemed quite anxious now that she had spoken with him, and anxious people hated to be a bother, she knew. But he had seemed amenable enough to her offering him things unasked, and she was still very interested in getting to know him better. Of course it would only be a friendship—while Hester was privately starting to think that her husband had decided to remain in England, he was still to her knowledge alive. But if she was lonely, and the minister was shy, it seemed that they might help one another out socially.</p><p>She decided to avoid coming on too strongly by waiting a week before she did anything else. Sunday rolled around, and she left the church with the rest of the congregation. Mr. Dimmesdale stood at the door as always, holding it for the elderly ladies and tipping his hat to people with nervous avoidance of eye contact. He was wearing the gloves, she realized, with a small thrill of satisfaction, and though the crowd bore her out without much chance to stop and say hello, Mr. Dimmesdale definitively smiled at her as she swept by. She smiled back, and walked home with purpose. If there was one thing that swept away the doldrums of winter, it was having a project.</p><p>She decided that bringing dinner over in a basket might help him look less thin, and resolved to do so Saturday night. The worry occurred to her half of the walk over, however, that he might take her presence as an imposition when he was at his leisure. Maybe she could knock on the door and then… hide? Or walk away quickly? The church was in its own open square; there weren’t many alleys to duck into to spare the awkwardness of the interaction. Her feet slowed, and she wavered.She couldn’t just leave it—it would get cold! </p><p>Forcing herself onward, she came to Mr. Dimmesdale’s door, and quickly rapped on the door. She’d just speak with him quickly, and then go. It took a moment for the door to open, but eventually it did, to reveal a hatless and slightly confused-looking Mr. Dimmesdale, blinking even in the burgeoning twilight. “Hello,” Hester jumped in quickly, eager to say her peace. “I, er, made potato soup—maybe too much. I thought maybe you would like some?”</p><p>This time, he responded with less shock. “Oh, goodness—all this charity, I… I appreciate it a great deal!” He gave her another of those smiles, and she felt a private little thrill at being able to elicit one. “Thank you, Goodwife Prynne.” She nodded and held the dish out fo him to take, which he did quickly and sheepishly. There was an awkward moment in which Hester was a little too happy to recall that she had meant to leave then. “Er—would you like to join me?”</p><p>“Oh!” She shook her head quickly. “No, sorry, I’ll leave you alone. I didn’t want to bother, I just thought, since I had it…”</p><p>“No, no—unless you would like to leave. I…” He tugged at his collar, laughing nervously. “I’m afraid I’ve been in my study all day, and I think it might be good for me to have some human contact. And there’s far too much soup here for one man.” His mouth twitched up in a smile. “Tell me—is there secret wisdom to making it, too?”</p><p>Hester found herself going pink. “Er—I may be able to share some.” She laced her fingers together behind her back to keep from wringing her hands. “I’ve already eaten, but if you want… company…” Probably nothing scandalous in that; he was, after all, a minister. No one would talk.</p><p>“Yes, please—er, why don’t you come in?” Mr. Dimmesdale set down the dish quickly, and stepped out to hold the door open for her. “Get us both out of the cold.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Hester said, not having eaten at all, and stepped into the rectory. She could eat later—now was the opportunity for company, a far more precious resource. And anyway, Mr. Dimmesdale clearly needed the sustenance, if all he had done all day was hole up in his study.</p><p>***</p><p>This became the first of many visits of its sort; Hester would bring over food, sometimes, or winter clothes, or any sort of excuse she could, and Mr. Dimmesdale would exclaim in delight and surprise, and give her a boyish smile. He would invite her in; they would fall to talking; the night would wear on, and she would go home happier than she had been in years. Nothing like a friend—nothing like a friend who was such a kindred spirit! He listened to her with such interest, and asked intelligent questions, and explained his own work to her in return. If she had enjoyed hearing his sermons at the church, she loved getting to discuss them even more. </p><p>“One thing,” she said, one evening over a pudding she had pretended to have made too much of, “that has always bothered me—why does the scripture only speak to men?”</p><p>“How so?” Mr. Dimmesdale took a bite, and peered over his sermon notes. It would have been terribly domestic if the specter of her absent husband didn’t sit with them.</p><p>“Your wives this, your womenfolk that.” She gestured vaguely. “Moses, St. Peter, they all write as if only speaking to other men.”</p><p>“Well, they are writing for men,” he pointed out without concern. “Women don’t read.”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“Do you?” He looked surprised.</p><p>“Yes.” She frowned. “I should have to, or the ledgers of my seamstress’s business should fall apart.”</p><p>He stared for a moment. “I… suppose that’s true. And you read your scriptures on your own?”</p><p>“Yes,” she replied, slightly sharply. “They’re not so cryptic.”</p><p>He looked not a little surprised. “I… suppose that the Evangelists never expected such a thing, then.”</p><p>“Mary is God’s own mother, is she not?” she pointed out. “What of Mary Magdalene, and St. Teresa and Judith? I should like to have been written to by them, is all I think, Mr. Dimmesdale.” She decided not to push it any further; men didn’t like challenges, perhaps not even kind men like him.</p><p>“Please, call me Arthur,” he said absently, staring at his sermon. That surprised her; what surprised her more was when he crumpled the pages before her eyes, and stood abruptly. “You’re… you’re right. I’ve never written on that—on women. I wouldn’t know how.” He crossed into the other room quickly, and returned with fresh paper and inkpot. Then he looked up at her. “What… what do the women of Boston need to hear?”</p><p>She blinked. “I’m no scholar,” she protested. “I don’t have the nuance that you do even if I can read on my own.”</p><p>“Yes, but what’s a scholar without lived experience?” he pressed, his eyes bright. “Come—you tell me, and I’ll write, and then you look it over and see if I’ve made any errors. This is much more interesting than Job for the eighth time.”</p><p>“Well,” she said slowly. “I… should like to hear about the women in the bible outside their capacities as mothers, or wives. I would like to know what Bathsheba thought, not about her beauty. I want to know why Delilah did what she did, or where Jochebed found her bravery.”</p><p>“Oh, yes—yes, I could do all of that,” he muttered, scribbling fast in beautiful script. “Thank you, Goodwife Prynne—you’re a true friend.”</p><p>“Please,” her mouth said, and her mind was scandalized to see it do so. “Call me Hester.”</p><p>***</p><p>The sermon to the women of Boston was received with much interest, and Mr. Dimmesdale—Arthur—almost seemed… different, after it. They met as before over dinners and discussed the scripture, but now he actively sought her opinion, and often incorporated snippets of it into his work later in the week. The attention was intoxicating, and she had to pinch herself regularly to keep from gazing at him too long as he wrote. The lines of his face were beginning to seem less haggard, and below the impression of frailty and shyness he really was rather handsome. Long eyelashes dusted high cheekbones as he glanced over the paper, and he chewed at the corner of a shapely mouth. Hester pinched herself again, and woke up sweating and guilty in the night from thinking about it again.</p><p>She nearly slipped one night, talking of the Song of Solomon and how tricky it was to fit in a righteous sermon. “Things were much different in those days,” he said sadly, poring over his much-bookmarked bible. “Far too obscene for me to make anything of without offending or misteaching. And yet here it is, in every house in the Commonwealth, and I hate to let it go unaddressed.”</p><p>“I think it’s rather romantic,” Hester said, looking at her own copy absently. “Perhaps flowery, perhaps overly… explicit, to be sure, but maybe you could make something of love.”</p><p>“Perhaps…” He frowned at her, his eyes far away. “Does love have a place in a town like this? Or are we all too pressed by worry and hardship to care about perfumes and ornaments and kings and queens? It seems a very frivolous thing.”</p><p>“Love ought to be what makes the living here bearable,” she replied. “What else is all this struggle for, if not to allow us the time to love one another?”</p><p>“To… create the kingdom of heaven on earth,” he said slowly. “Or to praise the glory of God, or…”</p><p>“Oh, of course,” she assured him. “Just… I know I’m happiest when I have others around to be kind to. That’s a kind of kingdom of heaven, I think.”</p><p>He looked thoughtful, perhaps a little disarranged, and Hester began to wonder if she’d said too much. It was getting late, after all, and she had really ought to be getting to sleep. She made some excuse, stood to gather her things, and he did as well out of politeness. “I shall see you tomorrow, then,” he said, and reached out to pick up her bible and hand it to her. She did the same at the same moment. Their hands touched.</p><p>Hester swallowed hard and looked away as hard as she could, receiving the bible with a mumbled gratitude and putting on her winter clothes as quickly as possible. She snuck a glance; Arthur, too, seemed uncomfortable. She cursed herself, nodded politely, and fled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From then on, things felt changed. They still ate together, Hester too addicted to company to go back to being alone and save her pride, but all she could think about was the minister, and his kindness and cleverness and interest and handsome face and… her arms were growing sore from all the pinching. And he seemed to be aware of it, of the unhealthy closeness the two of them were beginning to develop. Hester railed against the specter of her husband in her own mind these days, daydreaming of a letter of his death to set her free. She made her visits to the minister furtive, so people wouldn’t talk. He stared hard at his papers and his bible, and spared little eye contact for her. He probably hated her, and was too polite to send her away. She wasn’t polite enough to do it herself.</p><p>“David,” he said one night, as they sat in silence. “I think I’d like to talk about David this week.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Mm. I want to explore how one could sin and come back from it like he did.”</p><p>Hester winced. That seemed pointed. “I don’t know if the rest of Boston will care for that. We’ve a pretty black-and-white view of things.”</p><p>“True.” He looked tired again these days, his eyes underscored by bruises of purple. “We sweep his sins with Bathsheba under the rug. Perhaps we shouldn’t. Perhaps we should condemn him for that.”</p><p>“I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “He was complicated. He did a lot of good, too.”</p><p>“But is one evil deed enough to poison you forever?”</p><p>“It cannot be,” she protested. “A lifetime of good against one mistake?”</p><p>“Depends on the severity of the mistake,” he said darkly. “Coveting thy neighbor’s wife. It’s in the commandments—one of seven deadly sins. Lust. Pride. Greed. Any of them.”</p><p>There was silence for a moment, Hester’s stomach churning nervously, and Arther’s eyes flicking to meet hers just once. He looked so tired—tortured, even, she realized. She held that pained gaze until she really felt her chest burning with guilt. There, Hester—see what you’ve done?   </p><p>When he stood, abruptly, it was almost a relief. What he said was not. "I’m sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry. I do not want to offend you," he said hurriedly, pacing the room up and down. "I enjoy your company distinctly—in fact, I believe too distinctly, and it is for this reason that I believe we should be better off severing contacts except in the course of normal interaction at Sunday meeting."</p><p>Hester blinked at the flood of nervous speech. "Excuse me?" she said, perhaps a touch too sharply. "Arthur, I don’t—” </p><p>He ran a hand through his hair in consternation. "What I mean to say, Hester, is that our... conversations, our friendship, our confidences, I find them... distracting. You are a wonderful person, and—but your husband, we don't know what has become of him, and the congregation—"</p><p>Hester felt half shocked, half annoyed. She didn't know whether she was more surprised that her feelings were returned—to the point of distraction—or that Arthur's best excuse was the congregation. Her guilt evaporated. "I don't mean to be impolite, here, Arthur, but if you think the citizenry of Boston is some omnipresent eyeball watching your every move, then I may have to unburden you of your naivety. I should hardly expect anyone has noticed me visiting you."</p><p>"Well, yes," Arthur said, drumming his fingers on his desk, "but marriage is off the table—you may not be a widow. And the congregation surely will not stand for such a thing if there were a shadow of a doubt that the man were dead..." He sounded bitter.</p><p>Hester paused, her stomach twisted in knots. Oh. This was a different situation than the one she had expected. This was a situation that she had forced herself not to think of, and failed. In fantasy, there was a clear solution, but she was nervous of raising it—he might lose respect for her. Then again, he had already tried to send her away, so if this was a failure, she had nothing to lose.</p><p>She took a deep breath. "Well. They still don't have to know when I visit."</p><p>He waved a hand in agitation. "But I can't have you visiting, Hester! I don't—you and I—I... I have feelings, for—and the temptation, to do wrong by you—" He glanced up, his knuckles white on the edge of his desk, and Hester gazed back evenly. He stared back, unsteady.</p><p>"They don't have to know," she repeated.</p><p>A low moan escaped Dimmesdale, and he pressed his fingers hard to his temples. "Oh, no, no, no, Hester—that's a sin, that's something that God would know. I've already sinned in my heart, Hester, don't make me sin in body too..."</p><p>"Oh, stop it," she said crossly. "Jesus is about eternal love, isn't he? Do you think my questionably dead husband loves me?" He didn't answer, shaking his head and retreating behind his desk. She leaned in, undeterred. "You love me. I love you. The laws of man and decorum keep us apart, but it's certainly not God's will!"</p><p>"Covet not thy neighbor's wife," he hissed out, stabbing a finger into the desk. "Right there, Exodus 20:17. Like I said! David!"</p><p>"And what about those neighbor's wives?" she snarled back. "We never hear what Bathsheba thought! Did Moses ever ask what they were supposed to do? Sounds like I'm free to covet what I will!" She turned away, frustrated. "Fine. End our friendship for the sake of your immortal soul. Go back to the loneliness and cold. I won't bother you."</p><p>"Hester—"</p><p>She kept her mouth shut, afraid of what might come out if she opened it, and began to gather her things. Back to her own cottage, cold and lonely. This hurt her too, but what was there to do? He didn't want her—or he did, but he wouldn't have her. She wasn't sure which was worse. Her throat felt raw; she swallowed hard.</p><p>"Hester, please, I—"</p><p>She didn't turn around, just pulled on her cloak and opened the door. The winter winds rushed into the room, threatening to extinguish the candles, and she fought her way outside against them, letting any of Arthur's protests get swept up in the howl of the storm. It was dark and blizzarding, but she knew her way home with her eyes shut after so many months of visiting. No, no tears, she told herself sternly. Those could wait for when she was safely alone.</p><p>A hand seized her wrist, and she startled, terrified that some highwayman had snuck up on her in her distraction. "I'm sorry—" Arthur, unprepared for the cold, his hair whipping in the wind. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't hurt you like this."</p><p>"Indeed?" she said acidly, trying to jerk her hand away. Prolonging the end was hurting her much more, in fact—how many times had she looked at his hands and wanted them to hold hers? Now it just felt like a trap, tricking her into vulnerability.</p><p>But he didn't let go. "No, I—" Some great inner turmoil was playing out across his face in the dark—guilt, fear, need. He was never a guarded man at the best of times with her. "Myself I can torture. But put you in pain, I could never do."</p><p>"So it's torture to spend time with me? I appreciate the knowledge," she spat.</p><p>"It's torture to overthink the way I do!" he cried, taking her other hand and holding both of them like they were his lifeline to the world. "If I owed nothing to the church I would cast it all away for you, Hester, and if I didn't love you I could return to my rooms and be free of this guilt, but I can do neither! I must bear one or the other, and—" she looked up at him, then, and found his jaw set, as it was when he had come to the end of some thesis of his. "I am not a strong man, Hester. I know this. I am... afraid to break rules. Please help me be brave enough to do so." And so saying, he lifted his hands to her face, hesitated only a moment, and then kissed her.</p><p>Hester exhaled all her anger in surprise, and found herself kissing him back before the foolishness of the situation made itself clear. "We should... get back inside," she murmured, her hands having found their way to his shoulders somehow. "You're shivering."</p><p>"Am I?" he replied, looking dazed. "I hadn't noticed." He followed behind her as she turned and made her way back to the rectory, and Hester divested of her winter things again as he carefully shut the door. He seemed to pause there for a moment, and she approached hesitantly.</p><p>"What are you thinking?"</p><p>He turned. "I'm not dragging you down with me, am I? I'm not pulling you into something you have no wish to be part of? You just wanted a friend—"</p><p>Hester rolled her eyes. "There's such a thing as lying to be decorous, Arthur."</p><p>"What—?"</p><p>She interrupted him with another kiss, pressing him back to the wall and twisting her hands into the front of his doublet. It seemed to take him a moment to process the situation—he always seemed to take surprises hard—but he got over it quickly enough, and settled his hands carefully at her waist. She leaned into his touch, half for herself and half to encourage him, and smiled as she kissed him, his mouth warm and endearingly clumsy. His hands tightened and drew her in closer, his breath and hers coming quicker now, and mightn't it be more comfortable away from the door? She murmured as much and he agreed, their hands finding each other as she pulled him toward the other room. </p><p>The bed was half-covered in papers, testament to those dark circles under his eyes, but he quickly put them aside. Hester hardly waited to let him organize them; she'd buried feelings like these for too long, and now her heart was pounding and her body ached for touch. He leaned back into kiss her and she let him, finding his buttons and undoing them as quickly as she could. His breath shuddered a bit, and he shifted closer, his hands seeking the laces of her bodice behind her back. She took a moment to correct him—she laced her bodice in front, without the aid of someone else to help—and felt him shiver again as she pressed his hand to her chest. She suppressed a laugh, and tugged his jacket off, unlacing his shirt and applying her mouth to his chest hungrily. He was all angles, too sharp, but graceful; Hester had only ever been with her husband—late, or traitorous, who cared—and Arthur seemed comparatively fragile, gentle. Someone who would be almost too careful not to hurt her. She shrugged her shoulders out of her bodice and kissed her way up his throat, feeling his pulse hammer away under her lips. This felt good, to be the one leading.</p><p>It was cold outside the warmth generated by their bodies, and so Hester shifted into his lap, enjoying the muffled noise of pleasure he made when she did so. There was much shivering, from cold or from touch she couldn't tell, as his shirt and her chemise were dispensed with, and she shifted to hook her legs around his waist and press her bare chest to his. His hesitation seemed to have disappeared; he wrapped his arms tight around her, his fingertips pressing into her skin, and his breathing was heavy and hot on her skin as he kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbones. She imagined he hadn't done this before, but to be fair, she was beginning to realize she hadn't either; not in a way that had been mutual, meant for both.</p><p>They were forced to break apart to divest of the remainder of their clothing, but got under the covers as quicky as possible and cozied back up. It wasn't a langurous occasion, at least for Hester; there was a definite feeling of urgency, like they might not get to do this again. They might not; minds might change in the morning. She threaded one arm behind his head and tangled her fingers in his hair, wrapping the other around his waist. He breathed out hard, and drew closer, closer, until there was nothing but touch and feel and their island of warmth. And up through the moment that chills shot through her body like never before, past when their heartrates returned to normal, once he had made some effort at more modest dress and climbed back into bed, and long after she fell asleep with her hand entangled in his, that warmth remained.</p>
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